Halo: The Answer Why
by Sturmgewehr44
Summary: The year is 2536. As the Inner Colonies collapse one by one, the Covenant have invaded the chilly world of Frostbyte, a UNSC-held world on the fringes of the Outer Colonies. Follow the valiant stuggles of the men and women who fought tooth and nail to save the planet, and each other. Reviews welcome!
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I do not own the Halo Universe. That belongs to Bungie/Microsoft. Only the characters are my inventions._

**Chapter 1**

_Frostbyte (UNSC-controlled Territory)_

_Military Calendar: 30-8-2536_

_UNSC Bravo Base_

_2230 Hours_

The man sighed as he reclined in the old swivel chair. The dusty leather creaked under his weight. He cast a look around him: rectangular polycrete-and-steel room, large window (no good view, of course) made of bulletproof glass, standard issue Titanium-A door, his chair and its accompanying oak desk, a bed. Nothing special, really.

The man swiveled to face the window, catching a glimpse of the outside world as thunder boomed and lighting flashed. Beyond him lay the great expanse of snow that covered the entirety of Frostbyte. And it was a wasteland, one now that cradled in its arms the blood and souls of many brave men and women. A humorless smile danced across the man's face. This view of storm-lit night was the best he was going to get in a long while.

He turned around to stare down at the datapad that lay upon his table. In its lifeless screen he found his reflection: Blue eyes, young face, cleanly shaved with black hair trimmed to regulation. But it was the haggard look in his eyes that betrayed the man of his weariness. Long gone was the youthful spark that burned in his gaze, replaced now by the tired eyes of the battle-hardened veteran.

As he powered up the datapad he noticed the glimmer of the silver double bars that proclaimed him a Captain of the United Nations Space Command Marine Corps. He recalled the old man before him, who'd worn the bars on his collar with as much pride and fervor that befit such a man in service to Humanity. And it was this service that the old man had given his life to. Thankfully the plasma bolt that had burned into his chest was as mercifully swift as it was scorching hot.

Numbers and words began scrolling up the screen, but to the Captain they were just that: Digits and letters. These were statistics, listing the casualty reports of the Battle of Frostbyte. And the list was the one thing that the Captain least wanted to see now.

He set the datapad down on the oak desk, leaning back in the chair with another sigh. The past week had taken its toll on him. He was so_ tired_… Oh, what he'd give for a rest.

The door to his office slid open with a whisper, and two squeaks were heard as a pair of UNSC-issue boots swung together in attention: "Captain Hummel, Sir. Permission to – "

"Permission _denied_, Lieutenant." Inwardly he cursed; he was being too harsh on the aide. But he had a point to get across, and he needed his sleep. "I gave orders that I remain undisturbed until standard Reveille tomorrow _morning_, did I not? Now leave my office, and make sure everyone else gets the message. Dismissed."

Eyes still closed, he could picture the Lieutenant – barely out of Officer Cadet School on Luna, yet as much the man as everyone else – raise his hand in order to get a word in edgewise, then give up and leave the room, more than a little dejected.

The door slid shut, to muffle the retreating echoes of boots clacking on the cold, hard floor.

The rain was winding up, driving its rhythmic tempo into a frenzy. Thunder boomed, and the wing howled its fury at the glass window that refused to yield. For the tired Captain, the beating of the rain became the staccato barking of rifle fire, the rumbling thunder morphed into the belching of artillery, and the screaming wind twisted itself into the dying cries of men and women.

Mercifully, Captain Edward Hummel slumbered.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_Frostbyte (Contested Territory)_

_Military Calendar: 23-8-2536_

_Barque-Mortex Ice Field_

_1230 Hours_

Lance Corporal Michael D. Whitaker tightened the tactical goggles wrapped around his face, while pulling the thermal balaclava back up to his nose once more, blocking his face off from the frigid cold. He took a deep breath, appreciating the warm rush of air heating up his lips. It was frustrating, to say the least. He was wearing every single layer that made up the Winter-adapted Marine Battle Dress Uniform, from the thermal underwear to the white thermal fatigues.

And still, he _shivered_.

"You know, Sarge," He said, talking over the intercom to the figure that sat stock-still in the seat opposite him "You ever wonder why we're here? Like, why we fight and all?"

The figure failed to respond in any visible manner. Whitaker was only grateful for the opportunity to exercise his frozen throat, though his only reward was the persistent whirring of twin rotor blades beating the air as the UH-144 Falcon cut through the frigid cold. He shivered (_Damn it why wouldn't he stop shivering_) and waited, until the figure stirred, grunted a wheezy grunt, and sat up to lazily swing a gloved hand out to cuff the Corporal on the side of his helmet. When Staff Sergeant Carter spoke, his voice over the intercom was like two stones being scraped across one another.

"Number One: That, Corporal, was a damned fine question. However, I do not have in my possession an equally fine answer, so you can take it and shove it up your ass.

"Number Two: Do I look like I'm in a philosophical mood to you? Let me answer that for you – _No_. Do I look like I'm in a good mood for a nice beauty sleep in this godforsaken cold? Let me answer that for you – _Yes_. Now let me get some goddamned sleep."

The figure lay back down into his chair, turned with a loud _hurmph_ and went still again.

Sighing, Whitaker turned his head to look to his right, past the open bay door, past Private Brown, who was checking the state of his side-mounted M247 Heavy Machine Gun for the hundredth time, and out into the great beyond: The great white expanse of Frostbyte snow.

Aye, Frostbyte. That was the name of the wretched planet that Whitaker found himself stranded upon. A frontier planet on the very fringe of UNSC territory. Its majestic plains of frozen earth, blanketed in carpets of pristine white snow, made for awe-inspiring vistas, all the more accentuated by ranges of great mountains capped with glistening snow. Even its ice-coated oceans, vast as the eye could see, were worth a look. In all, this planet would have made quite the skier or mountaineer's vacation.

If it wasn't raining or hailing all the time.

Why were these UNSC here? Because deep beneath Frostbyte's surface, at some very specific areas beneath the crust, lay massive reserves of frozen gas, which the fires of human industry hungered for. Whitaker was a Marine, not a scientist, thus the details eluded him, but what he did know was that the gas was valuable to the UNSC. It was valuable enough to raise a small colony of miners to harvest this resource, and valuable enough to send in a detachment of Marines to guard the colony. That made Frostbyte a valuable colony.

It made Frostbyte a target.

It didn't matter whether the threat was from Insurrectionists or from other terrorist factions: The Marines were stationed to protect the 2miners, and the _UNSC Arabian Knight_, a _Paris_-class heavy frigate, was stationed to protect the Marines.

But everything changed when the Covenant showed up.

One fine day, a single _CPV_-class heavy destroyer dropped out of slipspace, almost on top of the _Arabian Knight_. The UNSC Heavy Frigate may have had more Titanium-A armor, but it was for naught. Against a Covenant Destroyer, bristling with pulse laser turrets and plasma torpedo tubes, the singular UNSC ship hadn't had a prayer.

Whitaker had been in the mess hall when it happened, queuing for his breakfast. He'd stood, slack-jawed like everyone else as they stared at the television screens that adorned the corners of the mess hall ceiling.

The video feed had been live, being recorded and transmitted on the spot by an on-site Clarion Spy Drone – little more than an engine, a camera, a bunch of sensors and a transmitter, it was usually used for scanning, recording, and data transmission. Now it displayed to all the horror that went on way above their heads.

The fight was over almost as soon as it began. The Clarion Drone had been too slow to begin capturing a video: By the time a proper datalink was established the _Arabian Knight _was already listing heavily to one side. Its armor was charred, and blackened, holes burned into its Titanium-A hide. The crippled ship was venting atmosphere through multiple hull breaches. The Drone's camera shifted, giving the Marines a glimpse of their aggressor.

The Covenant warship was sleek, and bulbous, just like the rest of its kind. Its purple coloration and swooping, organic curves gave it the look of some deep-sea predator, almost like a shark. Its purple surface was lit up the light-pink flares of its pulse lasers, which leapt forth to burn scars into the _Knight_'s armor. Occasionally a single dot would leap from the Frigate's surface: An escape pod, fleeing for its life. But the lives of these, and their occupants, were inevitably short-lived, as pulse lasers struck them as they hurtled down to Frostbyte, disintegrating the pods instantly.

Its twin plasma torpedo tubes powered up, bathing the destroyer in an eerie pink light. Then, two thick, blazing streams of fiery plasma leapt from the destroyer, lancing into the side of the dying frigate.

The _Arabian Knight _blew up. It hadn't even managed to fire off a shot.

Debris. Explosions. A shockwave. Even as the _Paris_-class frigate broke into two, consumed by its own flames, the Covenant destroyer strayed all the closer, firing its pulse lasers, making sure the human warship stayed down as it began its final descent into Frostbyte's atmosphere. That was the last thing that the Clarion Spy Drone caught on its camera, before it too was caught in the fireball that had once been the _Arabian Knight_.

The screen winked out – the Drone had been destroyed, and the feed had been cut. The lifeless television did little to dispel the looks of disbelief and shock that was cast upon its surface.

That was a week ago. Beyond of that, after the remains of the _Arabian Knight_ plummeted into Frostbyte's oceans, the Covenant destroyer had retreated into the Barque-Mortex ice field, where electrical storms and a perpetually charged-up blanket of clouds prevented any technological means of finding out what the Covenant were up to.

If it was any consolation, they hadn't glassed the whole of Frostbyte yet, hadn't laid waste to its surface and turned it into an orb of gray crystal. That had to count for something.

The commander of the UNSC ground forces, Captain Nicklaus Anslov, had ordered two recon patrols per day, one at 2400 hours at night, and one at 1200 hours during the day. Each time a platoon would leave for the Barque-Mortex ice field in their Falcon transports, and they'd return, two hours later, aching all over and complaining of the cold.

That was before Alpha Base, located in the north of Frostbyte, went radio-silent. Bravo Base, located to the south, and nearer to the Barque-Mortex ice field, had sent out a single Pelican to investigate. When it came back, no one took a second look at the footage. No one needed – or wanted – to.

No one knew how the Covenant had done the deed so quickly, to prevent Alpha Base's cry for help from getting out while evading all of the UNSC sensors, but they'd gotten their job done.

The Pelican returned with a video showing nothing but heaps of blackened rubble. There were no survivors.

Captain Anslov proceeded to double the number of patrols.

That was why Corporal Whitaker now found himself freezing in the perpetual winter of Frostbyte, flying over its plains of snow with no one for companionship but 49 silent men, in 9 metal birds.

And _that_ was why they were here. Stranded, with no hope for support or evacuation off this shithole. Frostbyte would be their graves.

It wouldn't be long, now.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

_Frostbyte (Contested Territory)_

_Military Calendar: 23-8-2536_

_Barque-Mortex Ice Field_

_1255 Hours_

"Storm's getting worse. Wake up your buddies and keep your eyes peeled for Covies. Puller out." The intercom hissed with static and crackled out. That had been Gunnery Sergeant Daniel Puller. Big man who only spoke when he had to. Quiet man. But a good man nonetheless.

He was right. The further they travelled into the ice field, the worse the weather conditions would get, until a point that no sane Falcon pilot dared venture past, lest he was willing to risk total mechanical and electrical failure.

"All Falcon pilots, we've reached the end of patrol distance. Bank around and head for home. Puller out." After a repeated series of _Roger_ and _Copy that_ all Whitaker could hear was the increased whine of rotor engines straining to turn their loads around 180 degrees. Whitaker settled back into his seat, pulling up his balaclava again, which stubbornly refused to stay up around his nose. He decided to remain content with admiring the stormy landscape below him as he waited out the ride back to Brave Base. Sergeant Carter was still sleeping, and had even decided to snore as well.

That was when the shit hit the fan. Literally.

Whitaker would forever remember the green blur of a fuel rod blast as it arced up into the air, lazily slapping the lead Falcon's left rotor as though it were an old friend. The ensuing detonation shredded the left rotor engine's propeller blades, throwing the smoking, ruined Falcon helicopter into a wild spin, which dragged it through the air and into another Falcon, just to its right. Both vehicles plummeted, belching smoke and flames, and slammed into the ground, where the screech of twisting metal was accompanied with the oily fireball that brewed forth from the fresh wreck. No one was walking out alive, for sure.

In the wake of the explosion, the intercom was engulfed in chaos. Troopers were shouting for help, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened, while Staff Sergeants like Carter were trying desperately to quiet the men down. But their orders were all the same:

_Get the men in those Falcons on the ground. Now._

Shaking off the shock of witnessing the ambush, Whitaker turned back to scream into the Falcon's cockpit. "Pilot, get this bird on the ground, _now_."

The pilots of the UH-144s were more than happy to obey, keen to ignore the fact that they'd just lost good men to unseen assailants.

Seven Falcons hit the snow with a soft thud. Men and women hurried out, eager to avenge the loss of their comrades. The perpetual storm had chosen to roll in a bit of fog, so visibility was steadily being reduced to a minimum. Weapons were cradled in arms, fingers exploring details etched in metal as Marines made last minute checks to make sure their firearms were fit for duty, offering quick, murmured prayers to a variety of deities as they were marshaled by their Sergeants into specific squads. Casualties were being discussed by the various Sergeants over the intercom – which meant that anyone who was listening could hear that the Gunnery Sergeant Puller was on the first Falcon that had gotten hit, and that the Platoon Medic, Doc Liesel, had been on the second bird to go down. Which meant they had lost a whole tier of leadership, as well as their medical support. Not to mention Fireteams Alpha and Bravo from First Squad. That meant a good 12 men dead.

The men from Fire Team Charlie were distributed into the remaining 6 Fireteams, including Staff Sergeant Dean, who was placed into Whitaker's Fireteam.

Echo Platoon had left with orders to destroy any Covenant presence they encountered while on patrol. With 38 men left and the fog coming in, obscuring their vision, this was going to be harder than previously thought. In hindsight, Whitaker would go on to believe that the men of Echo Platoon should have stayed aboard their Falcons, and should have made a hasty retreat back to Bravo Base. The move might have saved many of their lives.

The seven remaining Falcons lifted off, with one immediately streaming off into the fog. In a place like the Barque-Mortex ice field, sending distress calls was useless as the radio signals would be hopelessly distorted, so that particular Falcon was sent off to radio in for reinforcements and evacuation from Bravo Base. The other six Falcons would serve as mobile fire support platforms, covering the Marines as they made their advance.

Scratch that, make it five Falcons, because a trio of blazing green fuel rod bolts burst out of the fog bank, slamming into the side of another Falcon, causing it to enter a graceful nosedive into the snow, where it stayed on its side, still smoking.

With nothing to shoot at, the Marines made a decision to advance to the crash site of the first two Falcons, using the flames there as lighting to dig in and wait out the fog.

As such, six groups of disgruntled men and women trudged their way through the thick snow, eventually finding the crash site.

No one bothered to look for survivors. Everyone knew such an attempt would have been futile anyway. In a short while, they'd secured a rough ring around the two flaming Falcons. Here the troops dug in crude trenches, and waited for support from Bravo Base. It was then that the Covenant made their move.

First were the screams, the wails and growls of bloodthirsty aliens as they approached the humans through the receding fog. Then they charged, _en masse_ out of the retreating fog, howling in their foreign tongue. The _Unggoy_ came first, methane breathing cannon fodder. Known by the UNSC as Grunts, and wielding their c-shaped plasma pistols, officially labeled as the Type 25 Directed Energy Pistol, they jabbered, whooped, ran at the Marines, and did everything _but_ shoot with any semblance of accuracy.

The Marines were ready and waiting, and with MA5B assault rifles they began pouring hot lead into the approaching horde. Whitaker, like several other marksmen, shouldered a M392 Designated Marksman Rifle and opened fire. Peering through the scope, Whitaker aimed for heads and smiled a humorless grin as Grunts began dropping like flies.

Someone tossed a grenade; the ensuing detonation threw of plume of dirt and snow into the air, accompanied by bits and pieces of unfortunate Grunts. Men were being pulled from the rest of the perimeter to fend off the Grunts, but in reality it was more of a bloodbath, as no human casualties were sustained, while the human defenders completely decimated the charging aliens. They fell and died in the dozens, torn apart by rifle fire from the Marines and machine-gun fire from the encircling Falcon gunships.

So caught up were the Marines with annihilating the Grunts, however, that they failed to notice the assault approaching their rear. When someone looked around, past the wreckage of the two Falcons, it was too late.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

_Frostbyte (Contested Territory)_

_Military Calendar: 23-8-2536_

_Barque-Mortex Ice Field_

_1330 Hours_

_Sangheili _warriors charged at the Marines from the rear. The Marines turned to fire at their attackers, who were now a little too close for comfort. With surgical, systematic precision, more fuel rods arced into the sky, sending Falcon gunships crashing into the ground. In mere minutes the Marines had lost over half their number, and a lone Falcon ducked and dodged the enemy fire desperately, even as the _prat-tat-tat _of the aircraft's side turrets firing rang out like a defiant cry.

The _Sangheili_, more often referred to as Elites, earned that moniker with their size, physique and propensity for killing. Each beast was shod in armor and cloaked in shields of energy, which shrugged off small-arms fire like they were insects. Having a viciously shark-like look and all highly trained, individuals were known to all be smart, bloodthirsty killers, and this showed in their efficiency with mercilessly whitling down Whitaker's platoon-mates.

The man on Whitaker's right screamed as his armor was melted by a plasma overcharge. With concentrated attacks from two opposing directions, the troops were lost. And the cold was taking its toll on a soldier like Whitaker, whose vision grew even more blurred, and whose breathing became increasingly labored, skin laced with frost and teeth chattering in the perpetual winter.

The UNSC troops were surrounded, and the enemy was advancing. Corporal Whitaker loaded his last clip of ammunition, and fired off enough rounds to deplete a blue-armored Elite's shields, before a high-pitched squeak to his left and a flash out of the corner of his eye gave him ample warning to roll to the side as several bolts of hissing green plasma hissed into the ground and melted the snow.

Whitaker brought his rifle up to the lone Grunt that had made its journey to the trench intact. He aimed at the strange apparatus that provided the creature's face with its precious methane supply, and pulled the trigger.

Other than a hollow _click_, absolutely nothing happened.

The DMR had jammed in the cold.

There was no time to fix it, as the alien was already pulling the trigger of its plasma pistol. Whitaker stumbled, barely pulling himself out of the trench as green bolts flew past him. Clambering wildly, he climbed out, slipped on the snow and fell, barely tucking into a roll and narrowly avoiding the bolts sent his way by the grunt, and now another of its brethren.

Whitaker gave thanks to whatever celestial deity watched over him, as shoddy the aim of the Grunts was. Their struggling failure to shoot him gave him just enough time to draw his M6D sidearm and empty half his clip into the first of the aliens.

The second grunt squealed pathetically at the demise of its comrade, allowing the Corporal to step close enough to pistol-whip it across the face, knocking its methane breather off of its head. The stunned Grunt swung wildly, trying to reattach the breather mask to its face as it gasped for the gas it craved, in an unforgiving world that had none. Its distraction was enough for Whitaker to fire two rounds into the back of its head, causing it to collapse on the ground next to its brother alien.

But the Corporal had no time to celebrate his minor victory, as the last Falcon gunship slammed into the snow nearby, the ensuing explosion throwing Whitaker off of his feet, and planted his face into the ground.

As he got back on his feet, he – being in a mildly concussed state, and quickly losing the battle against the cold, failed to realize two things:

Firstly, the UNSC troops were now without any local air support.

Secondly, the Covenant soldiers with Fuel Rod Cannons could now turn them on the previously mentioned human infantrymen.

This the aliens proceeded to do, as green fires blossomed along the rapidly-collapsing UNSC line. Whitaker could only watch, dazed, as the last of his comrades were taken apart by the savage Covenant attack.

Then another fuel rod explosion tossed a disembodied arm towards Whitaker, which landed with a soft _thump_ at his feet.

Charred and bloody, the remnant of flesh was a sight too much for Whitakers's weakened stomach, the viscera and gore too much for his concussed mind to handle. He vaguely remembered retching on to the snow-covered ground, briefly suspending shooting his pistol to spew vomit onto the floor. He felt tears stream down his face, and barely felt a sting in his leg.

Looking down, he saw a long glass-like needle sticking out of his left shin. Oddly, the impaled flesh wasn't bleeding, and Michael found himself staring at the needle, which was glowing a hypnotisingly beautiful, iridescent purple. It was so pretty, so shiny…

And then, the needle detonated, taking his left leg off by the kneecap and hurling Michael to the ground, winding him thoroughly. The small blast finally knocked some sense into the soldier, and random thoughts and facts began flying through his mind as he stared at the bloodied stump that was what remained of his leg.

_Oh my god, was that my leg –_

_Was that a freakin' NEEDLE –_

_… "Needler", Covenant origin, handheld weapon that fires crystalline purple needles. Often carried by Grunts. Needles explode when embedded in organic flesh …_

_Oh my god I'm going to die I'm going to die I'm going to –_

The blood loss, coupled with the numbing cold, finally overloaded Michael Whitakers's mind, and threw the UNSC infantryman into darkness.

Had the Corporal remained conscious, he would have seen the 8-foot tall Elite step next to him, and squat next to his prone body. The Elite surveyed the human body, and turned to bark at his comrades. Two more Elites hurried over. One wore armor with a golden hue, and with his massive frame towered over his blue-armored subordinates. With his four mandibles splayed, revealing the rows of teeth that lined his four "jaws", he queried the warrior: "Speak, soldier, what is it?"

"This one is alive, Commander Arumee", the squatting _Sangheili_ responded while turning to face his golden-armored superior. "He still breathes, though he will not live for long if he bleeds out from his leg wound".

Ship Commander Sel Arumee surveyed the battlefield, and looked over the corpses and bloodshed that covered it. Too much Covenant blood had been spilt this day to eliminate the Human soldiers, which was a waste, even if most of the blood was from _Unggoy_, and not his own _Sangheili_.

He looked back down to the squatting soldier. "You've done well, warrior". He gestured to the other blue-armored soldier by his side. "Both of you are to get this Heretic to the medical bay. Get his leg reattached then have him healed and confined. We need him alive for our… _purposes_. Dismissed."

With that, the Ship Commander turned and left, talking to other Elites that were poking through the corpses and the carnage.

By the time the whine of Falcon engines rang out across the Ice Field, the Covenant troops were long gone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

_Frostbyte (UNSC-controlled Territory)_

_Military Calendar: 24-8-2536_

_UNSC Bravo Base_

_0930 Hours_

"Gentlemen. As you all know, a patrol sent into the Barque-Mortex Ice Field yesterday met with the destruction of the entire patrol, meaning that the whole of Echo Platoon has been annihilated. Two of our Falcon Gunships were sent in, but failed to locate or retrieve any survivors, as far as we can tell. They managed to probe a little deeper, but they too were classified MIA. Given the nature of our situation here on Frostbyte, we are assuming that they were destroyed."

Captain Nicklaus Anslov paused to pull up an image on the briefing table, which projected the image as a hologram for all to see. He took the moment to look at the men standing around the table, which was located in the Operations Center, or Ops Center, of UNSC Brave Base. These were the four Company Leaders (Three Rifle Companies, one Heavy Weapons Company) that made up the remaining UNSC Marines that he had left, accompanied by other people of importance, and even a single ODST Platoon Leader. He could see it in their faces. These were tired, battle-weary men, men who had resigned to the fact that they were going to die on this godforsaken planet.

The grainy, monochromatic image showed a single mountain. It was fairly uninteresting, but for that fact that a very large door had been evidently build into it. It was evidently of Covenant design, given its purple hues and organic curvature. Anslov let the various men take in the image, then continued, "One of the two Falcons managed to send out this image, which was a near miracle as the electrical storms had just barely lightened up during that period of time. In the distress transmission, the Falcon pilot sent the image with attached coordinates, as well as a plea for help.

"Our scientists here have managed to locate the Mountain given the coordinates, and given the architecture of that big door, it can be safe to assume that the Covenant put it there. Now, we want to know what is so damn important to the Covies that they would break a bunch of holes into a mountain, so we're going to find it, then we're going to take it from them. If they want whatever's in that mountain so badly, well then by God, we're going to make sure they don't get it.

"Tomorrow, at 1200 hours local time, Marine forces will be sent in on a frontal assault on the door, supported by Scorpion Tanks, Warthog LRVs, and Falcon gunships. They will also be covered by limited local artillery, which will be directed by my Executive Officer, Lieutenant Hummel." Anslov gestured to the man in question, then back to the image, pointing to the top of the mountain. "This will mainly be a distraction, as Pelican dropships carrying our resident ODST platoon will circle around the battlefield and up towards the summit of the mountain.

"Alpha Company will circle around to attack the Covenant strongpoint from the North, Charlie Company will attack from the South. Bravo Company, you will go straight up the middle, from the East, with support with all the Heavy weaponry that Delta Company can bring with them. We're throwing everything in here, gentlemen. Every man, vehicle and weapon is going to be aimed at that Mountain. I hope that will come in handy." Anslov gestured as various simulations played over the holographic screen. Miniaturized Marine forces, supported by Scorpion tanks and Warthogs, circled around the Mountain in a classic pincer formation, quickly engaging and overrunning where stimulated Covenant trenches were projected to be dug in, drawn from what could be deciphered from the photograph. The simulation paused as Covenant armor – Wraith tanks, to be precise – streamed out from the Mountain, locking the human forces in a pitched battle.

"In the image, there are what appear to be Banshee aircraft leaving and entering the summit of the mountain. We presume that there is some sort of air base located there with accompanying anti-aircraft batteries. After Falcons and Artillery remove local air and AA support, and hence establish a safe corridor by air, the ODSTs will launch an assault from there by Pelican dropship and move downwards through the mountain, with the aim being to reach the center of Covenant operations." On screen, a pair of Pelican dropships moved into position over the top of the mountain. Anslov knew that if he squinted, he would've seen little ODST jumping down towards the mountain with Jetpacks. "You'll find local Covenant Command, wherever that may be, and hold it until conventional Marine forces arrive on scene. Remember that you'll be fighting in close quarters, so tailor their armory as such. The regular Marines can take as they please. We have more guns than we have men here, so being weapon-scarce isn't really a problem. Our scientists and engineers will take over from there once local superiority is secured. Any questions?"

No response, save a few appreciative murmurs and disgruntled sighs. Which was more than Commander Anslov could ask of.

"You have until the morning to brief your men and prepare them before we move out tomorrow. You are dismissed, gentlemen. Have a good night's rest while you still can."

Captain Anslov returned to his quarters after the men had filed out of the Ops Center. Here he looked out of the window, which – as usual – failed to provide him with any view of anything, then turned to look at a chart he had pinned up on the adjacent wall. It was an astrological chart detailing the entire expanse of UNSC-controlled space. On it, multiple star systems were marked with big crosses of red marker ink: Worlds taken over by the Convenant invaders. Lost to marauding aliens. Nicklaus sighed and sat in his leather chair, the only one in the room.

The UNSC were losing the war. Everyone knew that. The Covenant hegemony had been steamrolling the space colonies of the UNSC for years on end. Colonies like Verge, Harvest, Paris XII, whole planets that had burned, reduced to balls of glass and ash and dust, billions of people from all walks of life, united in an unstoppable, all-destroying fire.

A useless war fought by valiant men. That was the common thinking of UNSC troops these days. Morale was rock-bottom, and did not seem to be going higher anytime soon. Positive battle reports were rare, even from battles fought on distant worlds that used to trickle in before communications from them ceased. Like a report from the colony of Algolis, where a single Marine – codenamed Ghost, or Ghoul or some other spectral name of the sort – sacrificed his life to wipe out an entire Covenant invasion force. Algolis was saved. The report was, of course, probably rumors spread along the rank and file to make the frontline troops feel better, but hey, it had worked. For awhile at least.

_THAT_ was what the UNSC needed: Successful battles like those, not mindless floods of propaganda that nobody believed anyway.

_We need victories_, Captain Nicklaus Anslov thought to himself. After losing the _Arabian Knight_, Communications relays on the ground had beamed a high-priority distress message into space, calling for immediate UNSC assistance. It was all the communications officers could do. But Anslov knew that even if the message got to friendly UNSC forces – which it may or may not – it would take months for UNSC High Command to assemble and field a force to retake the planet, especially one in the Outer Colonies.

Effectively, they were alone. Stranded. Everyone knew that. And if the situation failed to lighten up anytime soon, the Captain knew that there certainly would not be anyone left alive on the planet to cross Frostbyte off his star chart.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

_Frostbyte (Contested Territory)_

_Military Calendar: 25-8-2536_

_Barque-Mortex Ice Field_

_1250 Hours_

Captain Nicklaus Anslov made the mildly interesting and fairly irrelevant discovery that riding in an Elephant troop carrier was a rather silent affair, especially if the huge vehicle was properly sealed. The slow-moving command vehicle lumbered at the back of the UNSC advance, its four tractor threads barely dragging its weight across the ice and snow.

Meanwhile, the room around him was abuzz with excitement. Crewmembers strode purposefully around the room, making sure all systems – like communications – were battle-ready. Hummel, his XO, stood in a corner checking in with the Artillery units. Anslov sat in the Commander's seat near the front of the room, providing a good view out of the Elephant's forward viewscreen.

The holographic projector by his seat lit up, and from it sprung the hologram of the UNSC's resident Artificial Intelligence, Aquila. The blue figure was a proud man dressed fully in the armor worn by the footsoldiers of the ancient Roman Empire. Even in holographic form his armor seemed to shine as though it was polished. The AI saluted Anslov, the metallic pieces of his armor shifting and clinking together. His face was of a young man, fresh-faced and jovial, good-looking and altogether peaceful, somewhat unsuited for the havoc that was about to occur.

Aquila let his Scutum – the rectangular shield painted with a grandiose eagle on it – lay on the "ground" of the projector and sat on it with total innocence. He seemed totally serene. Unsheathing his Gladius, the AI rubbed a finger across the blade, as though to test if it were sharp. The virtual construct cleared his throat – as though he didn't already have Anslov's attention – and declared that "the field of battle was almost upon them".

Proud, witty and with a flair for the dramatic, the AI's personality was completely unique to Anslov. "Aquila, remind all Company Leaders to form up the Warthogs. Tell the Scorpions to spread out evenly amongst the line. Slow us down so Alpha and Charlie Companies can circle the Mountain to engage the-"

"Already done, sir." Aquila said smugly. He flicked his thumb once across the sword, then vanished, his avatar replaced by a projection of the Mountian. Color coded forces were already splitting off and speeding up to begin encircling the Mountain, even as more and more red dots – Covenant hostiles – began lighting up around the base of the mountain. "Real-time footage and intelligence reports from Clarion drones indicate that Covenant have indeed dug in nearby our estimates. We've a singular trench running around the Mountain as far as we can tell."

The AI reappeared and paused for a moment, then continued. "Local air support reports that Banshees are present, with 2 AA guns stationed at what looks like a landing pad near the summit of the Mountain. Falcon and Pelican pilots have been instructed to avoid it if possible, until they are eliminated by artillery fire." Anslov turned his head nod to Hummel, who understood enough to radio the artillery crews – manning modified Scorpion tanks with 440mm Heavy Artillery cannons instead of the regular M152 smooth-bore cannon – and update them on the situation.

"The ODSTs are sitting pretty in their Pelicans behind us, sir. 3 dropships with 2 squads per dropship. That's 48 ODSTs raring for a fight sir."

The AI displayed a smaller version of the map in front of him, gesturing to it as though it were a chessboard. "Alpha and Charlie Companies are in position, sir. The Covenant know we're coming, and by your order, Captain, its time to go to war."

Aquila stood up and brought his Scutum up as though he – a virtual construct – could defend against anything corporeal. He clanged his Galdius against the shield twice to get everyone's attention (he did). Staring straight into Anslov's eyes, and without hesitation, he repeated.

"It's time to go to war."

_There was ringing in his ears, an annoying buzzing noise. _

_He couldn't shut it out. Opening his eyes only let in harsh white light, as though the Sun were in his face._

_The noise and the light. The noise and the light. The noise and the-_

_Make it stop, damn you, make it stop-_

Whitaker gasped, waking from his slumber. He tried to sit up, then realized that his arms refused to budge. As the momentary burst of strength faded away, he slumped back down, exhausted.

A machine to his left beeped erratically, then slowed down to a regular pace, just like an EKG would. Whitaker took the time to survey his surroundings, as far as his head could turn. He was in a room that was clearly Covenant (_so I'm alive: No heaven nor hell for me, then_), with the standard purple walls and organic architecture.

Slowly now, careful not to overexert himself, Whitaker twisted his head as far as he could to look around himself. He was alone, lying on a sterile metal slab that seemed like the Covenant equivalent of an autopsy table, just with purple coloration and a thin mattress. The room itself was furnished in a Spartan manner, the only interesting thing being a door on the wall to his right. His wrists were shackled in purple gauntlets, preventing him from lifting his hands off of the table.

Unable to move too much, and with exhaustion creeping up on him again, Whitaker felt very much like sleeping. Which he might have done, had the door not parted open with a pneumatic hiss.

Bright light spilled into the room, in contrast to the previously dim lighting, forcing Whitaker to squint. Silhouetted in the light was something bipedal and massive, its head almost touching the top of the doorframe.

It stepped into the room, purposefully, confidently. The door slid shut behind it. As his eyes adjusted to the change in lighting, Whitaker could see that his new roommate was an Elite, clad in brilliant golden armor. A Shipmaster, then. This fellow was a VIP for sure.

The Shipmaster strode slowly up to Whitaker, its armored boots clunking heavily against the ground. Its mandibles were slightly splayed, its ragged breath echoed around the silent room.

_Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. THUNK._

The Elite stopped when it was several paces away from where the human lay. And all it did was stare. Whitaker held its gaze. Human to alien, face to face. The two soldiers glared at one another in silence. Whitaker could have sworn that it looked almost… _gleeful?_

Then the alien moved its jaws.

And it spoke.

"I am Ship Commander Sel Arumee. Remember my name, filthy human. It will be the last you will ever know."

"All artillery units to open fire NOW, I repeat, open fire," Hummel barked into his headset's microphone. The dull _booms_ of the heavy 440s answered as the human shells streaked through the crisp air and slammed into the top of the mountain. The summit blossomed into fireball, shattered rock and loose snow being flung into the air like so many ragdolls. If there was anything on top of that mountain, it was fast on its way to being pummeled to oblivion.

Other shells rammed into the base of the mountain. Through his field binoculars, Hummel could make out rolling fireballs erupting from the ground, wrecking havoc (presumably) on the enemy line. If he looked closely enough, he could see alien bodies being tossed up and thrown about in a grotesque parody of ragdoll physics.

Even as the 440 artillery units lifted the barrage from their side of the enemy trench and focused on the mountaintop, the interior of the Elephant burst into activity as all UNSC units engaged the enemy forces. The Elephant's radios began squawking as Company-level handlers began communicating with Company and Squad leaders, offering directions, orders and advice on the fly. Praise the Lord for Clarion drones.

Hummel wrapped up his orders and wandered over to Anslov, who was standing by Aquila's projector. The AI's avatar was not present, but his voice was, and he was engaging the Commander in discussion over the battle's progress.

On the real-time map the human forces were pressing the Covenant defensive line further inward. If one were to zoom in, had it been possible, Hummel was sure that he would see alien soldiers falling back, and falling down under the withering UNSC fire. Those that broke and ran back were blown to smithereens by the sparse, final rounds that wrapped up the artillery barrage. Even the air was being cleared of Covenant flyers, with most of the Banshees having been shot down by the onslaught of UNSC Falcons, their pilots keen to avenge their fallen comrades. The ODSTs were ready to leave for their infiltration of the mountain.

The heavy 440s fell silent. The Covenant soldiers were being routed by the ferocity of the UNSC attack. It wouldn't be long, now.

"Let me ask you again, vermin. What do you know about the Oracle?"

"_Nothing… I swear… nothing…_"

"You lie."

Whitaker screamed as the tool bit into his hand. It seemed to be the Covenant equivalent of a surgical scapel, a purple tube with a small metal blade mounted on one end. From the other end extended a small blade of bluish plasma, very much like a miniaturized energy sword.

In a quick stabbing motion, Arumee drove the scapel into the human's hand, and left it with the metal blade still embedded in flesh. Blood welled up from around the gash. Numerous, similar gashes were scattered up the length of his pale right arm. Whitaker's breath was ragged. Staring at his impaled hand, he tried to move his wrist, and his fingers – very faintly – twitched in response. Pain lanced up his arm, and he winced at his efforts.

Even as he lay on the table, Arumee circled around him like a vulture. The alien was scarily massive, and next to him trailed a hovering tray that floated at waist height. It was loaded with Covenant surgical tools, very much like the scapel. And Arumee had no problems with using any of them on Whitaker.

"Human, unless you tell me what I want to know, when I'm done with your arm and hand and fingers… Well, we have four more limbs to go." The alien voice was low and rumbling, like boulders sliding over boulders. It was at once entrancing and yet grating on the ears. Whitaker still couldn't get over the fact that it was speaking perfect English. The Ship Commander trailed a scaly finger down the soldier's left leg, where a pink scar ringed the pale flesh where his leg had been fused back together. The brief touch raised goosebumps along Whitaker's leg, and he jerked violently to get the alien's hand off of him, only to gasp in pain as his arm spasmed in pain.

"It would be a shame if we'd put your leg together so nicely for you… Only to have to take it off again" The mandibles drew back in a sick parody of a grin. The scapel was drawn out of the back of Whitaker's hand; the Marine winced at the soft _snick _of the cool metal withdrawing from his burning flesh. Twirling the tool like he did this every day, the Arumee brought the little energy blade forward, dipping it ever so closely to the soldier's recently-healed leg, dragging it around and over the flesh in lazy loops and squiggles, as though the alien was doodling. Whitaker ground his teeth together in pain as the heat from the blade began to burn into his skin.

The Ship Commander casually tossed the tool into the floating tray, then strode over to Whitaker's face and squatted, so their faces were mere inches from one another. The human turned his face away; He couldn't bear the putrid stench that wafted from the alien's jaws.

"You know, I do read up on you humans, primarily because your history and literature fascinate me. I like to know what I'm about to destroy when I wipe civilizations off from the universe. I do remember this story I read somewhere… About this god from Greece?"

Whitaker grumbled in response.

"His name was… Prometheus, I think. He gave you humans the gift of fire. How laughable, really, that you filth thought your false gods would provide for you. What a joke.

"And the funniest part was when this other god, Zeus, decided that Prometheus' decision was wrong, and he had him chained to a rock, where an eagle would come in the morning, and spend a whole day pecking out his liver, until it left in the evening."

Suddenly, Arumee stood and grabbed Whitaker by the cheeks, forcing his to look in the direction of the only door in the room. Pointing, he gestured to the door. "There are Covenant doctors waiting outside this door, and they will fix anything I break. Like your leg, for example."

Arumee bent forward, lowering his neck so his mouth was right next to Whitaker's ear. He growled "The best part was that his liver would grow whole again during the night. And the eagle would return in the morning."

Suddenly, the alien's body stiffened. Whitaker could feel it, but barely had time to wonder about it as Arumee snapped out of his temporary trance.

"I just had an idea" He said to Whitaker, and the human's eyes widened in fear. He chuckled. "Your commanders are sitting in one of your transport vehicles, directing an assault on this very base, this very home of mine. I believe they're trying to avenge the loss of all your friends. And they won't. The thing is that, I happen to know exactly where they are. Now, what do you think if I sent in a team of crack troops to send them my greetings, hmm?"

Before Whitaker could get his mind around the implications of what Arumee had just said, the Ship Commander covered his mouth with a large palm, stifling his breathing. Without turning his head, Arumee grabbed for the scapel from the floating tray, found it, and dragged it down Whitaker's other arm in a single, fluid motion.

He sniggered as he held Whitaker down by the mouth, preventing him from screaming as the human's body trashed in pain. All that would escape from his mouth was muffled cries. Fresh red blood oozed from the new wound, seeping down onto the table, then onto the floor.

Dropping the blade onto the tray, Arumee stood to his full height and brushed himself off. "And the screams of Prometheus would fill the air every day. Again, and again, and again. Just like yours will."

Arumee turned to leave, and Whitaker could just barely catch him muttering something about cutting off the heads of snakes.

Drawing a shallow breath, Whitaker could barely gasp out "_I've already told you… That I… Don't know anything…_"

Arumee paused at the door as it slid open for him. Just as he stepped out into whatever lay beyond the door, he turned his head to look back at the injured human. He grinned, and as the door slid shut behind him, he said (in a voice clear and loud enough for Whitaker to hear):

"I know."

As Whitaker was left alone again, all he could think was how much of a sick bastard Ship Commander Sel Arumee was.


End file.
